


Dancing At Whitsun

by TheGoodDoctor



Category: Historical Farm (UK TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Multi, Wartime Farm, war-related sads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 12:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16450268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: down from the green farmlandsand from their loved onesmarched husbands and brothersand fathers and sons





	Dancing At Whitsun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [n3ongold3n](https://archiveofourown.org/users/n3ongold3n/gifts).



> n3ongold3n: that bit in wartime farm where they build a shelter is so sweet!  
> me: yeah! that is a good bit!  
> me:  
> me: i'm gonna make it Sad

He hears them before he sees them - of course he does; despite the window, the shelter is dark and enclosed and besides, it’s pretty dark out now - but he seems to sense them long before the low familiar voices float through the dusk, before he picks up the neat clicking of Ruth’s brogues and the steady thump of Peter’s wellies. There’s a sort of comfort inherent in the noise now; an association with coming inside of an evening when the day’s work is done and they can be themselves and together for a while. He knew they’d find him, in the end, with such certainty that he’s not really sure why he’s hiding, except that he is and he has to.

Ruth ducks her head in through the door, squinting in the gloom, and he offers her a sad little smile from his seat on the bed, hands fidgeting with his hat in his lap. Her face goes all soft and gentle at that and Alex sees her squeeze Peter’s large, rough hand as she pulls him inside after her. “There you are, love,” she says gently.

“Told you he’d be here,” Peter says. He’s got a small hurricane lamp in his other hand which he’s carefully protecting from the straw walls and the light makes his little hiding place suddenly warm and bright and golden. Ruth sits on one side of him and Peter, after placing the lamp on the little table, sits on the other; that contributes to Alex’s warm feeling, too.

“It is a very good den, boys; I’m impressed,” Ruth says. She’s still wearing her flour-sack dress. Alex is, quite frankly, amazed at how... _dress-like_ it is - he’d have believed her entirely if she told him she’d bought it off the peg from Debenhams. And she’d looked so beautiful, grinning widely and swirling around with the GI. Alex had been forced to hide behind the record player lest he do something stupid, like snog her senseless in front of directors, cameras, and all.

“Bit small, though, if we wanted to move in,” Peter points out. “Although we could just make the bed huge, fit the whole space.”

Ruth hums thoughtfully. “Not much space to do anything, dear.”

Peter raises his eyebrow and grins wickedly. “We’d have space to do all the important things.”

Alex can’t look at Ruth or he’ll giggle, but he knows she’s suppressing laughter too. “ _Peter_ ,” he says, and it’s an effort to sound more chiding than amused.

Peter suddenly assumes a very innocent expression. “Eight hours sleep a night - my doctor insists. Why, what were you thinking of?”

Ruth laughs, bright and loud, and the dam breaks: Alex ducks his head, giggling, and Peter stops feigning innocence to grin. He nudges Alex with his elbow gently and Ruth presses closer on his other side. “There - that’s an Alex as he should be,” Peter says, gentle and fond, and Alex rests his bowed head on Peter’s shoulder. He’s so grateful that they’re here.

He’s been sort of - fractious, his mum would say. All day, really; he’d slept poorly, and then most things have been rubbing him the wrong way, making him cross when he needn’t be. The producer says Alex and Ruth are going dancing while Peter takes in the hay, and Alex wants to know why they aren’t all going, even though he hadn’t minded a bit when he didn’t go foxtrotting at Christmas. The tractor doesn’t start for what feels like hours when Alex is at the starter and Ruth smacks it once and it sputters into life, and when she huffs a laugh, saying “A horse, a horse, my kingdom for anything but these bloody tractors,” he actually has to try to not take it personally. Peter instructs Ruth not to flirt with any GIs, and why not tell Alex, too? He’s not going to, but neither’s Ruth, and is Peter just assuming - or does he not mind - or-?

He knows he’s being irritating, too, much as he tries to tone down his raging jealousy when Ruth’s having a good time, dancing with the GI. He knows that it’s far too much to expect that Ruth and Peter haven’t noticed his behaviour today; he snaps and they pull back, wounded, or wind up just as cross. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

“Sorry,” he says. He doesn’t mean to make them upset when he is.

Ruth removes his hat from his hands so that he can’t do any more damage to the rim with agitated fingers and replaces the wool with her fingers, wrapping around his tightly. “We didn’t notice you breaking anything, so I assume this is something else?”

Alex shrugs against Peter’s warm, steady weight, leaving his eyes on the floor. “Feels like - as soon as we have fun, I muck it up.” Ruth sighs, like she might like to say something disapproving or disagreeing here, but instead just rubs his knuckles with the pad of her thumb. “I don’t mean to spoil things.”

“Well, I’ll infer from that that you had a good time at the dance?” Peter says, very casually. Alex catches Ruth frown at him, confused at the segue away from the issue at hand - ie, Alex - but Peter must give her some signal to just go with it.

Alex nods, pushing down his irrational jealousy and trying to be impartial. “It was good. Nice to be a bit cheery for a change.”

Ruth hums her agreement. “Nice to get dressed up, too; feel a bit pretty.”

“You look beautiful,” Peter says, in that ridiculously charming way of his, complimenting them all in a blurted rush like he can’t quite help it and then going red to the tips of his ears. Alex smiles into Peter’s sleeve, feeling like he’s falling in love all over again.

“Thank you, darling,” Ruth says, and her smile sounds like how Alex feels. “No, it was nice - we even heard some songs that weren’t about the war, which was something of a relief. Didn’t have to think about farming and fighting for a few hours.”

Alex sucks in a sharp little breath, but Peter still doesn’t push, even though Alex is fairly sure Ruth would like to. He just hums in agreement and taps his fingers idly against his knees in some little rhythm known only to him. “You’re saying you’ve gone off war songs, Ruth?” he says, deliberately mild. “You surprise me.”

Alex smiles as Ruth reaches around him to gently smack Peter’s chest. “Why would I ever go off war songs, Peter? Who or what could possibly do that for me?”

Peter props his chin on Alex’s head to better smile winningly at Ruth. “You enjoyed it really.”

She raises an eyebrow at him and Alex presses two fingers to his lips to hold back his laughter. “Yes dear,” she says dryly. “A straight week of you singing nothing but the chorus of ‘we’re going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried line’ every five minutes. What a delight.”

“Well, I don’t know any of the verses,” Peter explains brightly.

“We noticed,” Alex says, and Peter laughs and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

It’s quiet in their little hideout, warm and golden and cut off from the rest of the world - except it isn’t, not really. It wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for the war, and sitting in here just feels like burying his head in the sand rather than facing the problems. And Alex has to face them, has to run the farm and keep up production and-

Ruth rubs his knuckles again and he realises that he’s gripping her hand quite hard, now, and that his throat is seizing up. “Alex?” she queries gently, her other hand reaching out to stroke careful lines down his cheek.

“Alright, you’re alright,” Peter murmurs, shifting so that Alex is slumped into his side and he has an arm free to rub a broad palm up and down Alex’s back in long, slow sweeps.

“Sorry,” he manages to choke out. “S-spoiling things.”

“No,” Ruth soothes, her earnest eyes seeking out his own and holding them. She’s wide-eyed with worry, but he drinks in the comfort she offers. “No, love, it’s alright.”

Peter takes Alex and Ruth’s hands in one of his own and presses them to his chest, breathing in and out deeply. “With me, Alex, c’mon.” It’s the words and the gesture as much as anything else that helps; they used to do this way back when, when Alex panicked over exams or debt or, on one rather drunken but extremely memorable occasion, the state of his immortal soul. Now, wedged between Peter and Ruth, with their hands holding his own to Peter’s broad, steady-moving chest, Alex finds himself able to breathe again.

He wants to say sorry, but rather thinks Ruth and Peter won’t appreciate it. So he says what he’s thinking, instead, and hopes for the best.

“What if we can’t keep up production?” he says, voice small. Peter squeezes their hands, all still held to his chest, but neither of them say anything - just letting him talk. “What if the War Ag fails us?”

“We’ve got plans,” Ruth reminds him gently, leaning into his side. One of her arms is crossing his chest to reach Peter and the other props her up behind him so that he’s encircled on all sides by them. He used to worry, back when all this was new, that he’d find it stifling and that he’d feel trapped between them, but he needn’t have. It’s his favourite place in the world and he’s convinced there’s nowhere safer. “We’re using all the land and following all the guides as best we can.”

“And we’re not wasting anything,” Peter adds. “We’re ticking all the boxes, love.”

Alex closes his eyes for a moment to be endlessly, eternally grateful that neither of them have said _but it’s not real, Alex._ It bloody feels like it is, and it’s terrifying. “I know. It’s just-” he stops.

Peter squeezes his waist with the arm still wrapped around his back. “Why’re you so scared of the War Ag, Alex?”

“Because-” He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, hunching in on himself into the warmth of their odd embrace. “Because if we fail, we lose the farm,” Alex explains slowly, carefully. “If we lose the farm, we’re not in a reserved occupation any more. If we’re not in a reserved occupation, Peter and I get conscripted and we have to leave Ruth here and probably leave each other and we’ll all be apart and maybe we’ll die-” A tear slides off his chin before he even knows he’s crying, and then he’s trapped in the middle of the fiercest hug he’s ever known and sobbing. Peter’s arms are wrapped tightly around them all, his face buried in the back of Alex’s neck, and Ruth’s fists are balled in their shirts like she can hold them here with her bare hands if she only grips tightly enough, and all Alex can think is _please, God, keep them here with me. Don’t let me lose this, it’s all I’ve ever wanted._

He loves them so intensely it scares him, sometimes. They’re so wound up in the things that make him happy and he thinks of them every minute: Ruth’s frequent, bright laughter, Peter’s thoughtful care, the way they make him better, sharper, an elevated version of himself. He can’t imagine anyone else making him laugh so hard when he’s shovelling shit, or being so fondly indulgent of his ukulele playing, or holding him close when he’s panicking about problems that aren’t even problems, not really. Alex certainly can’t imagine kissing anyone else or living with anyone else or being half as intimate with anyone else as he is with Peter and Ruth. They’ve earned his love, they deserve it with everything they do, and if he can’t have them then Alex doesn’t think he wants anyone at all.

Peter smells of hay and sweat from his evening’s work, and his trenchcoat slightly of dust. It’s the oldest thing they have, this series, and the First World War coat is stubbornly hanging on to its ninety-odd years of dust despite their best efforts. It’s itchy, when Alex rests his head on Peter’s chest out in the fields, but wonderfully warm and Peter’s always willing to tuck one or both of them inside the coat with him as much as he can, pressing them up against his firm, warm body. They must look truly daft - three heads and six legs and all elbows and shoulders, barely inside the coat and usually giggling. The coat feels like home and comfort to Alex now. Ruth’s wearing the slightest bit of perfume, Alex can smell it, and her new clothes are soft under his hands. Half the things Alex and Peter wear bear her stitchmarks - it’s like carrying her around with them, always, and Alex finds himself running a thumb over the neat line in his left-hand pocket whenever he’s trying to make a decision. She always looks so put-together, even when they’re all run ragged; a promise of a fresh start. But Alex likes ruffling her up: his and Peter’s hands sliding beneath layers, pulling off jumpers and fussing with tiny buttons, and Alex happily declaring, “At last! Underwear I recognise - wait, no I don’t, where’s the clasp-?” - Ruth, tipping her head back, all pale, smooth skin, and laughing; Peter, giggling into the crook of Ruth’s neck like he can’t quite believe his luck.

“They are _not_ taking you from me,” Ruth says firmly, voice slightly shaky under the weight of emotion. “I won’t bloody let them.” Alex finds her fist and clings to it.

“We’re going to have the best farm the War Ag has ever seen.” Peter sounds almost furious. “So good that the Reichsnährstand is going to come here in person and lay their surrender at our feet.”

Alex hiccups a sort-of sobbing laugh. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

Peter shrugs and pulls them closer, until Alex can hardly feel what’s him and what’s Ruth and what’s Peter, all crushed up together in one. “It will be when we’re done with this farm. They’ll have to, because I’m not letting either of you more than one mile away from me, ever.”

“I can manage that,” Ruth says, pressing a kiss first to Alex’s temple and then to the crown of Peter’s head.

Alex sniffs, wipes his eyes and summons a smile. “It’s a plan.”

After a minute or two of quiet comfort, Peter shifts awkwardly, stretching his spine as best he can whilst wrapped, octopus-like, around two other people. “Not to rush, but - can we go in, then? Or lie down, but the bed is tiny and the director did give me explicit instructions not to stay in here overnight.”

Alex lifts his head to look inquiringly. “Is your back alright?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing at all, which Alex knows to mean _no, but I’m not going to tell you that._ “I’m scared to lean on the walls in case several barrows of nettles, nine medium-sized branches and a window come raining down on us.”

Ruth raises an eyebrow as she gently disentangles herself. “No faith in your building skills, Peter?”

“It’s essentially a pile of grass, love,” Peter says, grinning. “I’m afraid to _breathe_ in here, in case I huff and puff and get buried alive.”

Ruth laughs, leaning in to put her head on their level. “Oh, you big bad wolf,” she teases, and Peter closes the gap to kiss the grin off her face. Alex leans his head on Peter’s shoulder, smiling fondly. _I’d do anything for this,_ he thinks.

Ruth presses her forehead against Peter’s and grins at Alex, before straightening and pulling both boys up with her. “Come on, bed.”

Peter salutes lazily. “Yes, ma’am.” Hurricane lamp in one hand and Alex’s hand in the other, Peter leads them out of the shelter and into the night.

Ruth shivers as she follows, jogging a little to catch up and tuck herself into Alex’s free side. “Ooh, it’s turned cold. Effective shelter, chaps.”

“Warmer than the Victorian farmhouse, that,” Peter agrees.

Alex hums, trying to maintain a straight face. “And the furniture’s harder to break.”

Ruth laughs at Peter’s attempt to be offended and not amused, setting off Alex’s giggles. “Oi,” Peter says, more fond than anything else. “Those chairs had it coming.”

It’s dark as anything on the farm, what with the blackout - and they’ll have to get in quickly or risk government-issued wrath over the hurricane lamp - but the place has become familiar and Alex isn’t going to be keen to leave it, when it’s time. He never is - there’s always more to do to the farm, and a sneaking suspicion that rejoining the “real world” is going to be something of a disappointment. But he’s protective of this place, more so than of the Acton-Scott estate, or Morwellham; something about the threat of having it taken away, or invaded, or bombed. Because this is the truth of it: Alex can sit around here, doing all he can to avoid conscription, and still lose everything. Southampton was blitzed to pieces during the war, only a couple of miles from where they are now. So was much of the coastline where he grew up, and the cities where he worked, and of course London where he studied and met Peter and where Ruth works, sometimes. Even if they were lucky enough not to be bombed halfway to hell and back, if they’d lost the war, then-

Well. There’d be no hand-holding, no living together, no cuddling up in a huge great pile of limbs. Avoiding conscription wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference, if he still couldn’t hold them.

He squeezes their hands and they look at him curiously. “Do you think you’d have signed up?” Alex says.

“For the Auxiliary Units, you mean?” Peter asks, and Alex shrugs.

“I think so,” Ruth says. “That, or something else. I’d probably end up in a factory.”

“Ruth the riveter,” Alex says with a small smile.

“It has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it,” she says, nudging him with an elbow and a grin. “But yeah. I’d hate _not_ doing something, if there was something I could do. Suppose it’s different for me, though; not being on the front line, and all.”

Peter frowns, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I’d do,” he admits. “Can’t stand the idea of fighting, but I can’t see myself as a conchie either. I’d have to be a farmer, or a firefighter in the Blitz - anything but a Bevan Boy.” He gives a great shudder and Alex knocks their shoulders together - Peter’s big, broad shoulders, which, as the man is only too aware, were not made for squeezing between cracks in the rock, miles underground. He hadn’t enjoyed their stint as Devon miners and had flat-out refused to go back under this time.

Ruth moves Alex’s arm so that it wraps around her and she can cuddle closer into his side. “What about you?”

“I think I’d sign up.” Ruth pulls back slightly to frown up at him, and Alex can feel Peter’s eyes on his face. He gives a short shrug, not looking at them. “I’ve been thinking,” he explains, “- not much point in keeping us together if we lost. And there’s no point in the farm if it just gets bombed and we all die. And - I don’t know. Some things are worth fighting against, and some things are worth fighting for. And a future where I can do this,” he says, bringing their hands to his lips to kiss them, fervent and urgent, “is something worth fighting for.”

Peter squeezes his hand, hard, and Alex wonders briefly if it’s a hiding-from-cameras thing, this conversation and affection through the medium of hands. “I’d be fucking terrified to lose you,” he says, an odd wobble in his voice.

“I’d be fucking terrified to go through my family history, looking for Jewish relatives,” Alex replies, more quickly and snappishly than he’d intended. But now he’s going, he can’t seem to stop, breaking out of their hold and stepping ahead of his frozen companions, whirling to face them. “I’d be terrified to try and live with you two and not be found out. I’d hate to keep what we have a secret for fear of our fucking _lives._ I’d hate to have to choose which one of us marries Ruth to try and be respectable, and which one of us is just the - the _housemate,_ the _friend,_ or - or ends up leaving to be with someone else so that we aren’t arrested or murdered and is fucking miserable for the rest of my life.”

Peter and Ruth are unmoving, faces masks of pain and sorrow, and Alex is crying again, and he’s just being so bloody _stupid-_

“No, love, you’re not,” Ruth says, spell broken, and she steps forward to enclose Alex in her arms, tucking his head into her neck. “You’re right, and it’s as important to remember _why_ we did all this as it is to remember what we did.”

“But, Alex,” Peter says, wrapping his arms around their shoulders so that Alex can feel both their pulses, beating in neck and chest, against his head. “We’re not going to leave you. I promise.”

And that almost startles Alex out of crying. Because Peter, the perceptive bastard, has put his finger neatly upon what has apparently been eating Alex all day, without Alex himself knowing what it was at all.

“We’re in this for as long as you’ll have us, darling,” Ruth murmurs, stroking idly through his hair. The gesture’s all comfort, all Ruth, and Alex can breathe easier. “On the farm and off-”

“In sickness and in health,” Peter intones solemnly, and when Alex treats them to a wet little laugh Ruth grins into his temple and something in Peter relaxes a little.

“We’re having you, and we’re keeping you, young man,” Ruth says firmly. “Even if we have to live on a little farm in the middle of nowhere where the sheep don’t give a damn about respectability.”

Alex pulls back to wipe his eyes and offer them a small smile, trying to school his breathing into something resembling normality. “Are there places were the sheep _do_ give a damn about respectability?”

“Oh yeah,” Peter says confidently. “Suffolk sheep - famously very moralising.”

Ruth laughs, tilting her head to rest on Peter’s collarbone, and Alex leans in to kiss him tenderly. “Not Suffolk, then,” he murmurs against Peter’s mouth.

“Come on chaps,” Ruth says, pulling back and pushing gently at them in the direction of the farmhouse. “It’s mighty chilly out here if you’re only wearing a sack and I demand duvets.”

“It’s a splendid sack,” Alex says as Peter settles a hand at the small of his back and they wander towards the indoors.

“It’s come out pretty well, hasn’t it,” Ruth says thoughtfully, looking down and using one hand to swirl the skirt gently about. “I could charm any GI.”

“Don’t, though,” Peter says promptly and with studied calm, and Ruth laughs. It makes Alex feel slightly better that he’s not the only one who’s a bit jealous of the GIs - makes him feel very contemporary, too. Overpaid, oversexed and over here, indeed.

“Not even for real nylons and Coca-Cola?” she teases, and Alex’s heart swoops at the brilliance of her grin.

Peter summons a mock-stern expression. “Not even for chocolate. Besides, I don’t think they have any nylons in my size.”

Alex ducks his head, grinning, as Ruth becomes all sympathy for poor Peter’s stockingsless plight. The conversation and his grin both last them until they’re all ready for bed, talking around toothbrushes and tasting mint on each others’ tongues. Alex only really realises he’s feeling back to normal again when they’re tucked up, Ruth and Alex pillowed on either side of Peter’s chest with his arms wrapped around them. The blackout curtains shut them out from the rest of the world, no moonlight intruding on their peace, but Alex doesn’t mind the isolation so much now. The side lamp gives off a warm glow, turning Ruth’s hair to gold and bronzing Peter’s skin, and it’s peaceful and it feels like home.

“Are you feeling better, my love?” Peter murmurs softly into Alex’s hair. Ruth picks up his fingers where they rest on Peter’s sternum and entwines them with her own.

Alex hums. “Was it just that you didn’t sleep well?” Ruth asks, and he half-shrugs.

“I had a - bad dream,” he admits. He knows them well enough not to expect mockery, but he braces for it all the same. It’s still a relief when none comes. They wait for Alex to be ready, patient for what he wants to say in his own time, and he’s grateful for that, too. “It was about - us. Then. It was like we were-” He doesn’t want to say _really there,_ or _as if it really was 1940,_ because that makes it feel like this whatever-they’re-doing isn’t real, and it is. It feels more real than quote-unquote _real life_ sometimes. “It was about the war,” he says instead, and Ruth nods, because of course they understand. Peter rubs a thumb in gentle strokes against his shoulder, and Ruth holds his hand, and Alex focusses on these points of contact as he closes his eyes and begins to talk.

“We lost the farm. I got conscripted, and I went away - somewhere. But when I came back, Ruth had-” his voice cracks and he breathes slowly, in and out. “Ruth had forgotten me,” he says, managing to school his voice into something steady, and he hears her make a sad little noise. Her thin fingers contract fiercely around his own, and he clings to that contact to steel himself for what came next. “Peter had - he - died.”

He hears Ruth’s sharp little intake of breath, feels her press her lips to his hand. But he can also feel Peter’s chest move under him in steady, deep breaths, can hear his heartbeat thudding near his own. “We are not going to leave you, my love,” Peter says, and there’s that wobble in his voice again.

Alex’s heart flip-flops. “No, I know, don’t cry,” he says urgently, tilting his head up to kiss the stubble on Peter’s jawline.

Peter huffs a laugh and kisses Alex’s forehead. “Stop fussing and let me comfort you,” he says, pretending to be cross so that Alex laughs.

“We really aren’t going anywhere, though,” Ruth adds as Alex settles back opposite her. There’s such comfort to be had in her familiar features filling up all his vision that isn’t Peter or duvet, and he feels himself relaxing. “And next time, if something like this happens again, you tell us, okay?”

Alex surprises himself by nodding and meaning it. He’s not very good at telling people when he’s upset, as a rule; the whole reason Peter knows to let him talk in his own time is the absolutely colossal fight they had the year after uni because kind, empathetic Peter kept pushing Alex to tell him what was wrong. But he does, actually, feel much better for talking to them about it all. It makes Peter and Ruth feel better when they know how to help him, too, and Alex will move mountains if it makes Peter and Ruth feel better.

He dreams again that night. It’s summer, but cold, and he can hear the rain on the nettle thatching of the straw house. The three of them are wrapped up in Peter’s trenchcoat, heads bowed together in an insular pyramid, and they’re waiting.

“The War Ag is coming today,” Alex whispers.

“And we’re ready,” Peter reminds him softly. “Ticked all the boxes.”

“What if they find out about us?” he breathes.

Ruth rubs a thumb along his jawline. “We’ll go somewhere new. Different sheep.”

Alex nods - different sheep. Yes. They’ll be safe.

“I don’t want you to go away,” Peter says in a small voice, and suddenly Alex is wearing uniform - or maybe he always was. “Won’t you stay with us?” He’d do anything for Peter to sound less small, less scared, but-

“I have to go,” he says. “I have to protect you. But you have to stay here.” He needs them to stay, where they’re safe, where he knows how to get back to them. It’s important, urgent, they have to understand-

“We’ll stay,” Ruth says firmly. “We’ll stay here and keep the farm. We’ll wait for you, and when you’re ready, you can tell us.”

“I’m scared of losing you,” Alex says, gripping handfuls of the flour-white linen they wear. “I love you, and I’m afraid.”

“We know, love,” Peter says. “But that’s what you fight for, every day. To protect what you have.”

“And you’re being so brave,” Ruth adds. Peter shifts the coat, wrapping around them like huge wings until the light is shut out, blackout, and all he sees is them and all he hears is the rain on the nettled roof. “But we’re fighting with you, just as hard, and it’s going to be alright.”

Peter hums a little tune, swaying to a rhythm only he knows, and Alex and Ruth relax into it as easy as breathing. It’s only a half-dance, mostly a hug, but it’s as if it’s a tune they all know; not showy, nothing fancy, but gentle, and it feels like home.

The rain drums down harder, but the shelter they’ve built holds the world at bay. They’re hiding, a little bit, though of course they’ll be found. And there are problems they’re ignoring, though of course they won’t be ignored. There are hedges need tending, pastures need sowing, a War Ag needs pleasing - but, for a moment in June, they go dancing at Whitsun.

**Author's Note:**

> are you really a historian if you don't cry about historical events
> 
> i'm serious please validate me
> 
> find n3ongold3n on tumblr! without them and their enthusiasm, this wouldn't exist, and they do really excellent art. the hair floof on peter? beautiful. astonishing. true Art.


End file.
